Moments in New York
by mille libri
Summary: Ten songfics covering snippets in the girls' lives during the course of the series.


_I can't help it, I'm a sucker for a songfic. And they're handy jumpstarters when you're stuck on other projects. Here are ten songfics set at various points during the series._

* * *

><p><strong>Retail Therapy<strong>

"Paris Original," _How to Succeed in Business_

It was a rare day when new shoes couldn't help cure what ailed her. But today appeared to be one of those. Who cared, after all, if her feet looked fabulous in strappy sandals? The girls had seen her in amazing shoes before; they'd see her in amazing shoes again. Even the idea of the shoes attracting someone new fell flat today.

All she really wanted was to be barefoot in bed with Aidan. To toss on a pair of flip-flops and go for a late-night walk with him and his dog. And those chances were gone. She had spent them, squandered them on hotel rooms and sleazy sex with Big. Sex she hadn't wanted. Or had wanted but shouldn't have. The whole thing was such a mess, it went around and around in her mind.

Maybe she'd just try on a few pairs.

* * *

><p><strong>Beer and Wine<strong>

"El Paso," Marty Robbins

"'Out in the west Texas town of El Paso …'" warbled Aidan from the shower. Carrie glanced toward the half-open door in amusement. She hadn't heard that song in years; where had he picked it up today? The joy of Aidan was wrapped up right there—a throwback to the past, who never failed to surprise her.

But she wasn't a throwback, she thought, her hand clutching the shining diamond that hung around her neck. And not all of the surprises were pleasant ones, like old songs being sung in the shower, almost tunefully. Deep inside her always lurked the unpleasant suspicion that they didn't go together, that they didn't match. She was fashion and parties, he was beer and fried chicken.

The shower stopped, and he stood framed in the doorway, dripping, with a towel wrapped around his waist. Her heart skipped a beat at the picture he made there, the warm, sexy smile on his face. Why couldn't she be satisfied with this feeling? Why did it always disappear when she couldn't see him?

Wordlessly she got up and rushed to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She'd cling to the feeling as long as she could.

* * *

><p><strong>To Say the Words<strong>

"I'm the Only One," Melissa Etheridge

There was nothing but a blur of color, a cacophony. Miranda tried to hold onto the thread of the party, to see that everyone had food and drink, but it seemed she got blind-sided every time she went around a corner.

Robert's embrace should have been warm and comforting, but it made her want to fight him, to run away somewhere safe. Which didn't make sense, because where could she be safer?

Debbie's heartfelt emotions made Miranda's eyes sting and she blinked back the tears that threatened. How could everyone else surrender to happiness so easily? She fought against it, struggled with the claustrophobia it brought.

Miranda leaned against the dryer, her eyes closed. Finally the noise and the light had stopped, and she had a moment to stop and breathe, to be calm, to know what she wanted.

The door opened, admitting to her corner of peace the only person she really wanted to share it with … and there was no more fighting.

* * *

><p><strong>I Would Be Lucky to Have You<strong>

"If I Had You," Adam Lambert

The lipstick was shiny, and her hair was smooth and beautiful, and the dress fit in all the places it needed to fit. She'd never looked better, but somehow the image in the mirror failed to satisfy Charlotte. What did it matter?

The slamming of the door when Harry left still rang in her ears, and she had to acknowledge that nothing really mattered now. Once she'd thought she loved Trey, but it was nothing compared to this. Every time something funny happened, she picked up the phone to call Harry. Every night she rolled over in bed expecting his warm body next to hers. Every afternoon she started thinking about what to eat dinner and wondered what Harry might like to have. Without him, her life felt purposeless.

Now she stood in the midst of a room full of Jewish singles gazing longingly across at a man she would never have looked twice at before and wishing she could have just one more moment with him.

* * *

><p><strong>The Loves of Her Life<strong>

"God Only Knows," Beach Boys

They could hardly sit still, the three of them. She'd been gone only a few days, but they'd seemed like forever—Carrie in Paris was like Carrie on the moon. And without her, somehow they weren't them any longer. Brunch hadn't been the same, and in that short time they'd almost lost the thread of each other, their lives going on in such different directions.

Today they kept glancing at the window, kept getting up to go to the bathroom, were there nearly an hour early. God knew Carrie had her flaws—selfish and judgmental and sometimes shallow and definitely bad with money—but without her they were just three women.

* * *

><p><strong>L'Chaim<strong>

"Another Miracle of Judaism," _Falsettoland_

Harry turned the lights on, maneuvering Charlotte in her dress through the doorway. He tripped, stumbling, dropped her onto the carpet, and staggered across the room, landing against the bed.

On the floor, Charlotte laughed, and Harry grinned at her. "What a fuckin' mess!"

Charlotte shook her head. "It's the perfect ending to a perfect day." And she held out her hands for him to help her up.

* * *

><p><strong>Cracks in the Heart<strong>

"Tied Together with a Smile," Taylor Swift

It should have helped that it was all her own fault; it should have helped that she'd known better all along. But it didn't. As Aidan's back retreated, as it disappeared around the corner without looking back, Carrie felt the narrow control she held herself in starting to slip. She tried to hold it together by pasting a smile over it, but he was gone and her smiles were out of reach.

She wanted to run after him, to kick off her shoes and hike up her skirt and sprint down the sidewalks in pursuit of him until she caught up and made him see how very sorry she was.

Instead, she carefully dabbed around her eyes, wiping away any trace streaks of mascara. Feeling Miranda's gentle touch on her arm helped; it reminded her that today was for Charlotte, today was the magical day Charlotte had waited for her entire life. And for Charlotte's sake she dug a little deeper, found a smile that might actually cover the cracks, and glued it on over the pieces of her heart that were threatening to crumble without him.

* * *

><p><strong>The Uphill Battle<strong>

"Mack the Knife," Bobby Darin

Carrie lay in the bed, peeling an orange, listening to Big singing in the shower. It was an old song, something her parents might have listened to, and it made her smile—in so many ways he seemed to belong to a different era, a place in life where so much of the drama and the worry no longer had a place. It made him seem like a house on a hill—hard to reach, but such a safe place to be once you made the climb.

She'd never been one for men who required a lot of work, preferring the available over the unattainable. But if the rewards were as great as what she'd already experienced, maybe it was time to take up climbing.

* * *

><p><strong>Harry's Fairytale<strong>

"She Drives Me Crazy," Fine Young Cannibals

He'd noticed her the first time he met her, sitting at the desk in his partner's office. The perfect face, the sweet smile, the body carefully hidden under the tailored suit. And he'd been thunderstruck when she chose to change lawyers, wondering what it was about him that had made her think him the better choice. Now Harry was the one sitting across the desk from her, remaining in his seat even when he was sure she thought he was the rudest son-of-a-bitch she'd ever met. He was pretty sure she'd think his raging hard-on was a lot more rude.

The picture of her first marriage was pretty clear—picture perfect doctor and his wife on the outside, controlled Mama's boy and passionate but repressed wife on the inside—and Harry pitied her for it. He'd sat across this desk across from enough women that by now he recognized the dazed, lost look of the broken fairytale. This time, he wished he was the handsome prince to kiss it all away.

* * *

><p><strong>New York at Night<strong>

"Talking to the Moon," Don Henley

Samantha let herself out; at this hour of the night, there was no doorman, no one to see her walking home in her high-fashion couture. These were quiet hours in New York, or as quiet as an hour could be in a city that loudly trumpeted that it never slept. She wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but she treasured these walks, alone with her city. It was the quietest part of her day, too, and she had time to think, to do the dreaming she never dared to acknowledge in her daytime life.

She paused, breathing in the chilly autumn air, and looked up at the few stars that were visible above her. She'd already forgotten the name of the man who lay asleep in the bed she had just left; she didn't know the name of the man who would share her bed tomorrow night—but she knew who she was, and in the end, that was all that mattered.


End file.
